


An Argument for Boredom

by Only_1_Truth, roseforthethorns



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Assassin!Bond, Assassination attempts, Bondage, Consensual Sex, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Manhandling, Q is not the quartermaster, Sassy!Q, but he still knows his tech, dom-sub undertones, knifeplay (sort-of)- more like Bond has lots of knives, mild violence, non-MI6 AU, the assassination doesn’t go as planned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 22:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseforthethorns/pseuds/roseforthethorns
Summary: After leaving MI6, James Bond becomes a killer-for-hire.  Unfortunately, he’s entirely too good at it, and it’s left him not only jaded but bored out of his fucking mind.Enter Quincey Worthington.  He’s rich, he’s a genius, he hates his father, and he’s bored.  It’s a bad combo.  It gets even worse when someone is sent to murder him…  The chaos that ensues just might end well for both of them, and if nothing else, it certainly ends the boredom.





	An Argument for Boredom

**Author's Note:**

> from Rose: I couldn't have done this without Truth- she's a brilliant RP partner with a wicked sensibility and a fantastic sense of story.

Another day, another target.  And another party so full of rich idiots that James was once again wondering why he’d left his previous job to become an assassin-for-hire rather than a simple thief.  Then again, considering how the wealth was just hanging out everywhere, stealing would have been too easy. As it was, James was already resigning himself to this job being disgustingly easy as well - getting in had certainly proven no problem.  He’d been to business meetings at his old job that had had better security. Then again, James’ old job had been a bit on the paranoid side… 

Scanning the room and taking a small sip of his drink (god, even the drinks were bad), James let his eyes wander across women in designer dresses and men in designer suits, fake smiles and fake faces and fake laughter abounding.  Sighing to himself, James reflected that he was really no better - he was just a predator dressed up real nice, suit and tie and a charming mask. He was honestly beginning to wish that he’d just opted for a sniper-rifle and a rooftop, so that he could at least finish this job without having to also mingle with people.  

God, when had he gotten so jaded?  

He already knew the answer to that.  It had been entirely too long ago. In fact, this sudden change in profession had been meant to liven things up again, but, sadly…  James took another sip of his sub-par wine and tried not to think about a future where everything was dull and grey. Still, a job was a job, though.  James had managed to not only get into this party, but sneak a gun and silencer in as well, and it was high time he used it. A dark head of hair across the room caught his attention, and finally there was a dull spark of interest.  ‘ _ Locked on target _ ,’ he thought to himself, even as he emptied his glass, deposited it on a passing tray with a polite thank-you to the wait-staff, and began to move forward.

He’d been hired to kill the son of the rich bastard who’d set up this party, and since this party was hardly worth wasting time in, James figured he may as well just do the job and leave to collect his payment.

~^~

Bored. All was boredom and nothing vaguely interesting was happening- but without his mobile, Quincey couldn’t even amuse himself with his latest hacking creation. His lip twitching with a barely suppressed sneer as he remembered the smug look of superiority on his father’s face when he’d taken it before the party because “ _ proper young men mingle in polite company and do not stare at their phones”.  _ Sometimes, Quincey wondered what it would be like to frame his father for something and take control of the family estate. 

Fed up with insincere smiles and simpering tones and his father saying, “Oh you must meet my son. Quincey, come meet—-”, the dark haired young man couldn’t stand it any longer. Slipping from the room with the practiced ease of one used to escaping from large social gatherings, he strode down the corridor towards his father’s study on the first floor. Some of the staff eyed him on his way past, but they knew well enough to leave him be when his temper was this poorly hidden. He did stop for a moment to tell Perceval that absolutely no one, not even his father, should come back there; he needed time to think. 

It took less than a minute to safely ensconce himself and hack his father’s desktop. A single password with no encryption? Hardly a challenge. Muttering to himself, he began working into his father’s emails and looking for something to cause trouble. Or scandal. Quincey could survive family scandal, but his father would die of shame. Excellent. 

“Take away my mobile, will you? Let’s see how you cope with this then,  _ father _ .”

~^~

There had once been a day when James rejoiced every time his target made things easy for him, but now he felt a heavy weight of disappointment as the young rich kid he was tailing slipped away from the main hustle and bustle of the party.  James sighed. Just when he’d been expecting a challenge… Not that Bond was incapable of doing his job amidst a throng of people, but it certainly would have been more interesting than bringing someone's life to an abrupt end in some abandoned hallway.  It actually made Bond a little bit regretful about it all, and what was left of his morals gave a little rustle in his chest. Still, he disengaged from the latest woman who wanted to talk to him - giving a smile decidedly less sincere than the one he’d given the waitress who’d taken his empty glass earlier - and made his way to the same exit.  Bond knew how to stand out, but he also knew how to be invisible, and it was with very little effort that he, too, managed to slip away without gaining notice. The problem was, the hallway he ended up in was indeed deserted - and he had no idea where his target had gone. 

Maybe this would be the teensiest bit interesting after all.  

~^~

Five minutes were all it took for Quincey to find what he was looking for, and soon he was pulling up secure servers on which to dump the information. Cracking his knuckles and sitting down in his father’s chair, he began the challenge of MI6’s secure network. It would be, once he was in, a simple matter of making his father a threat to England but leave himself, the house, most of the fortune, and the staff out of it entirely. No one would suffer needlessly. Though, the longer he worked, the more he decided that straight up treason would be the quickest way. He could utterly destroy his father in one blow and then run. Disappear. Perfect. 

The only reason he didn’t hear anyone coming was because he was so completely absorbed in his work, his focus so absolute that he was oblivious even to his own muttering.

~^~

Getting back on the scent had gotten significantly easier when James had run into someone.  Usually, this could be quite a problem - for someone less trained that James, that was. So, after the initial, “Sir, I’m afraid you’re not supposed to be here,” from the young man in the waiter’s waistcoat, James had turned on the charm and gotten down to work.  Sometimes, problems were just advantages in disguise - presents that you had to know how to unwrap carefully. 

Well, the brown-haired little waiter had certainly been a useful present, and a little bit of ‘unwrapping’ later, and James was towards what was apparently the study.  The waiter was none the worse for wear; James had been rigorously trained at his old job not to leave loose ends, but since leaving that for freelancing, he’d loosened the rules a bit.  And James liked staff-members. Usually, they were just as bored and eager to go home and sleep as James was. Running a tongue over his lower lip and straightening his tie up just a bit, James pulled on a pair of gloves and gently tested the door to the study.  Unlocked. James grinned and shook his head patronizingly. If that little rich boy was having a fuck in his father’s study, at least he should have made sure the room was secure.

Then again, James had just snogged a staff-member senseless in the hallway where anyone and God could see, and he didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable about it.  But, James was also an inveterate exhibitionist. 

He couldn’t hear much within the room, so he eased the door open just a crack, pausing and listening.  Instead of hearing the sounds of an amorous lovemaking, however, he heard… quiet swearing. Since this was the first truly unexpected thing of the night, the blond-haired assassin frowned, and eased the door open just a bit more.  

The opening of the door didn’t raise any alarms - and it really should have, because Mr. Worthington Sr. was apparently the kind of overbearing berk who set up his study more like an office, with a big, massive desk squarely facing the door.  The better to intimidate anyone who came through, no doubt. Some days, Bond wished he wasn’t trained to read people so well… He was already half-wishing that the contract had been for Jedediah Worthington and not his son, Quincey. The old man seemed like a real ponce.  Still, James wasn’t entirely sure that Quincey was much better, especially since the kid didn’t seem to have noticed the slowly opening doors right in front of him.

His target was sitting at the desk, completely absorbed in his work on the computer and seemingly oblivious to the world around him. His fingers flew like a pianist’s over the keyboard, and Bond twitched a bit in surprise as the young man hissed a very vehement, “Fucking shit,” and seemed to be scrambling to correct a mistake. This… was not what Bond had been expecting.  At the party, Quincey had looked like any other rich man’s son: impeccably dressed with his nose in the air, the same insincerity surrounding him as all the other rich pricks in the room. Now, though, it was like looking at a different creature. James found himself flashing back to his previous job: when he’d been a 00-agent for MI6, most of his fellows had been like this, with a different face for every occasion.  James was so startled by the familiarity of seeing it in someone else that he let the door swing open a bit further without drawing his gun. 

Then he pushed it open a bit further - because what the hell?  It wasn’t like he had anything else to do tonight. And if this job went tits-up, perhaps he’d actually have to  _ work _ for his pay for once.  

~^~

The air shifted in the room as the door swung open, and Quincey didn’t even have to look up from his work to know there was an intruder. Irritation swept through him briefly before he schooled himself into calm, collected coolness. “I thought I told Perceval no one was allowed back here.”

“Apologies.  Sir.” The ‘sir’ came with a pause like it wasn’t natural - just flirting with belligerent.  

“Anyone who works here knows to call me anything other than  _ sir,”  _ Quincey replied evenly. “So either you’re new, or you don’t work here.”  _ Now fuck off and let me work- I nearly set off a firewall alarm and I only have one more thing to do _ , he thought, redoubling his efforts to frame his father for conspiracy and treason. 

The chuckle he got in response was also very not typical of anyone who worked around this household.  “Oh, I’m definitely working here,” was the inexplicable response, followed by a cheekier, “but I’m glad you don’t expect me to keep calling you sir.  I’m rather terrible at it.”

Frowning, and with a creeping curiosity getting the better of him, Quincey typed his last few lines of code to withdraw from MI6 and looked up to find a large, well-built blond man staring him down as brazen as anything. Though, as handsome as the man’s figure was, it warranted only a cursory glance because his eyes were far more interesting: cold, ice-blue, and somehow both laughing and hard.  _ Flinty _ , Quincey thought. Only then did he look at the man’s stance and the fairly well concealed but still obvious gun in a shoulder holster. 

Quincey raised his chin defiantly, his fingers resting on the keyboard as his mind swirled with several different possibilities. “Was it the Russians?” He finally asked, deciding to be blunt rather than play around. “And here I thought Boris was pleased with my work.” 

A blond-haired head tilted.  Arms folding, the stranger leaned a shoulder against the doorway in apparent ease.  “Was what the Russians?” 

“I truly cannot abide people playing stupid,” Quincey replied as he began to type again, this time with attention split between the blond and his work. “There is a gun under your coat, probably silenced, and to my knowledge, especially since I know everything that happens in this house, I am the only one doing remotely anything interesting. And interesting people always get killed.”

That earned him another chuckle, but this time is sounded a bit more surprised - a bit more real.  “Well, that was a leap of logic I wasn’t expecting. I’m afraid I can’t confirm Russian involvement, though.”  Instead of saying more, however, there was an unexpected rustle of movement. The man stepped into the room, shutting the door with his heel.  

“So. Third party contractor. Trained in infiltration and weaponry. Skilled at seduction since Perceval let you back here. And since I have heard no screaming from the ballroom, truly here for me and not my father. And I am now alone in a room with you. How incredibly boring.” And with that, Quincey armed the remote trigger on the estate’s alarms, wiring everything to the room’s alarm system. One more button would set it off.

What kept him from doing it was the stranger’s next move… which was to idly shrug off his jacket.  Watching Q steadily with unreadable blue eyes that remained cool despite the slight upward tilt to his mouth, the armed stranger let his jacket drop, and then, instead of reaching for his now-very-obvious weapons, he unclipped the harness.  Now with his guns at his feet, the blond-haired man folded his arms, and resumed his idle lean against the doorframe. “Still boring?” he asked.

Quincey’s eyes widened slightly, and he withdrew his fingers from the keyboard, curious. “Not invested in the job, then. Or I would already be dead. Unless,” and Q felt a shiver of something that was  _ definitely _ interesting flood through him. “Unless you play with your food before you’re done.” He raised an eyebrow at the blond, challenging him. “Am I close?”

“Well, I already did play with my food a little bit,” the larger man admitted, tipping his head to presumably indicate the world outside the study.  While the gesture was idle, the smirk that followed was wicked, “Although I think you said that ‘food’s’ name was Percival, yes?”

“I do hope you didn’t kill him. He’s one of the only decent people in this house.”

A tongue swiped languidly over teeth.  “Only a little death. And I’d definitely call him more than decent.”

The last thing Quincey has expected to feel was envy towards Perceval, but there it was, hot in his belly as he eyed the assassin. The man was all languid grace and power, certainly someone Quincey could see being both very good in bed and very much in charge… not that Quincey was ever obedient for long. “Well then. With my staff clearly elsewhere and the party occupying my father… I’m at your mercy,” Quincey finally said. 

“And you’re not at all bothered by this?”  The blond-haired head canted slightly to one side.  “I know I decided to get a bit more comfortable by disarming, but you’re still taking this very well for a spoiled rich boy.”  

Hazel eyes blazed with fire at the comment. “Rich, undoubtedly. Spoiled? Possibly, but not by choice. And if I’m going to die, I’m going to have a say in how it happens even if the method isn’t of my choosing.”

Another chuff of a laugh, this time accompanied by raised brows.  “You’re going to have a say in it, are you? All righty then, what’s your say-”  Another pause, something sharp glittering in those eyes, before the man added, “-Sir?”

“My say?” The ‘Sir’ was beginning to grate on his nerves, if only for the sheer cheek of it. Quincey made a show of thinking it over before deliberately, slowly, eyeing James up and down. “If you take me to bed first, I won’t struggle when it’s time. You can even make it look like an accident. Like I killed myself from sheer boredom.” Q logged off his father’s computer before stepping around the desk and placing himself fully in the assassin’s view. 

Blond brows had shot upwards, and now there was actual, real interest in the blue chips of the man’s eyes.  He didn’t move, though - and why should he? He was twice Q’s weight, and standing between him and the door.  “Usually,” he said, in a tone that indicated he was half talking to himself, “when I take on a job, I’m warned about whether or not my target is suicidal.” 

“I’m only vaguely suicidal when I am  _ bored _ . You saw that party. Tell me you didn’t contemplate random acts of  _ something _ to liven things up. This was just the final straw in my impatience with my father. So I came back here and framed him for treason, dropping the information to MI6 and erasing my trail completely.” If he was to die, why should his accomplishments die too? Who would the assassin tell, anyway?

For the first time, the gunman’s mask faltered.  Something like surprise flickered across his face before it was shut down, tucked away, like an unnecessary program.  “MI6?” he asked in a voice gone carefully emotionless. 

“Yes. They usually deal with treason and such. And whoever is in charge of their technology is woefully incompetent.” Quincey shrugged. “In the time I arrived in this room to when you found me, I was in their server with incriminating documents on my father and back out again with no trace-”

The gunman had been so still up until now, and moved so purposefully, that when he moved now, it was as if between one eye-blink and the next the whole world shifted.  Q barely got to finish his thought before he suddenly found two hands fisted in the collar of his shirt, his whole view taken up by broad shoulders and almost shockingly cold blue eyes.  “Show me,” the man demanded. It would have been better if he’d raised his voice; instead, his volume never rose, just grew harder, like something solidifying. 

Quincey’s breath caught in his throat at the sudden closeness. The assassin seemed much bigger from this angle, and his cologne was a deep, clean scent that washed over Quincey and made it a bit more difficult to think. Fighting a sudden spike of arousal (he would have to unpack that later), Quincey nodded. “If you’ll let go of my shirt, I’m happy to show you.”

The grip was released surprisingly quickly, although narrowed, canny blue eyes followed Q’s movements as he moved back to the desk and sat down, swiftly making his way back into the computer and then settling in to hack into MI6 for the second time in twenty minutes. “What am I looking for?” He asked, very aware of the warmth radiating from his unlikely companion behind him. 

“You’re not looking for anything,” was the response.  Compared to the blithe chatting of before, it was positively gruff, and Q couldn’t help but think that this was less of a mask and more of the man’s true nature- the blond was finally dropping the act.  “Just show me what you did.” A heavy hand settled on Q’s left shoulder, close enough to his neck that he could feel a thumb pressed against one vertebra like a silent warning.

“All right,” Quincey murmured as he worked his way back through the firewalls and into MI6’s main network, all of which took him less than ten minutes this time. He barely dared move his head at all, the hand at his neck more than enough reassurance of both the assassin’s presence and strength. “That’s what I did. There’s a back door in half the firewalls, and in the others it’s a matter of dodging through coded loopholes and alarms.”

A glance back showed the screen splashing light across the gunman’s face, turning the blue of his eyes all but colorless as he just stared.  “Well, fuck me,” was all he said for a moment. Fingertips drummed on Q’s clavicle. “Now I’m starting to wonder if my employers are actually still MI6, because you’re exactly the kind of liability that they probably don’t like to have running around.”

Quincey frowned, trying to think his way through everything the blond had just said. “You think… you think MI6 wants me dead. They couldn’t possibly know-”

“I don’t actually have a fucking clue who wants you dead,” the man interrupted him - again, which was just rude - straightening a bit and withdrawing his hand.  Running both hands back through his blond hair, the gunman then let out a laugh that sounded like it had glass ground up in it. “This is just too bloody ironic for words.”

Quincey felt his fingers twitching impatiently, almost nervously. The flirting of earlier had completely vanished, and now he just felt uncertain. He may as well have been afraid for all that uncertainty did to him. “What’s ironic about this?” He asked as he worked his way back out of MI6. 

As the gunman dropped his hands, it left his hair ruffled, but somehow he didn’t look any less suave for it.  “I used to work for MI6,” he admitted, with a twitch of his mouth that might have been a smirk if there was any humor in it. Instead, it looked bitter.  “So this’ll be just fucking hilarious if it turns out I left their ranks only to be put on their payroll again as a hired gun. Fuck,” he swore again. 

It felt like ice sliding down his back as Quincey made double sure to cover his tracks. “You left them deliberately. You wanted out.” The man’s tone was obvious enough. As he finished his work, Quincey idly chewed his lip. “We could always run,” he said after a long moment. “You worked for them so you know how they operate. I can make people disappear.”

Blue eyes that had been looking upwards as if for answers snapped back down to Q, and it was abruptly like being in the crosshairs of a laser-sight.  “Bargaining for our life now, are we?” came the chiding answer, the smile back in place. Now, though, at closer range and with a bit more experience, it was easier to see that the expression didn’t warm up the arctic blue of the gunman’s eyes.

“Less of a bargain and more of an offer. It would give me time to get you out of your contract if that is what you want. My previous offer still stands, though.” The sudden distance in the blue eyes had Quincey longing for the playful warmth of earlier. It should have frightened him how easily the assassin switched from one to the other. But it didn’t. If anything it just excited him.  

“You say that like I don’t already know how to disappear,” was the reply, accompanied by a chilly little smile.  But then the gunman folded his arms and once again resumed his previous, languorous posture - this time against the wall behind Q’s desk.  “After all, it’s only speculation that MI6 hired me to kill you today. It really could be the Russians.” The eyes glinted, and maybe some of the humor returned as the man added, “After all, you seem quite eager to mouth off to people.  Who knows who all you’ve offended.” 

“I’m sure you can disappear. I can make you vanish entirely. Your entire history, all records, fingerprints, photographs, I can erase you completely as if you’ve never existed.” Quincey was facing him again and leaning back in the chair with a confident smirk on his face. 

One of the blond-haired man’s shiny black shoes came to rest on the leg of Q’s chair, and idle sort of possession.  A smile was flirting with the corner of the man’s mouth. “You’ve got an awful lot of hubris for a dead man. Because I’m here to erase you, too, but in a different way, remember?”  

Quincey slowly looked down at the shoe, then back up at the assassin. “One of my few faults,” he said quietly. “You think I’m frightened of you? Of dying? Though I would appreciate a little respect for the furniture.” He glanced pointedly at the man’s shoe. “Off the chair.”

The expression on the intruder’s face froze, his eyes glinted.  Then, he turned thoughtful in a way that just couldn’t be good - although he did remove his foot.  He then very, very purposefully moved it so that it slid into place on the seat of Q’s chair, right between his legs.  Voice low, the man asked in the same tone that he’d been saying ‘sir,’ “Better?” 

“No, and you know it isn’t,” Quincey growled. The placement of the foot was less than ideal as Quincey could feel the tension in the room and in his body rising. “Take your foot. Off the chair.  _ Now _ .” And when the man just continued smirking, Quincey leapt up, grabbing the foot to try and remove it himself. 

A lot of things happened at once just then. 

In all fairness, a man of that size should have moved a lot slower.  Somehow, though, with very little warning, Q found himself no longer in his chair, but instead flat on his back on the floor behind his father’s desk - and easily thirteen stone of muscled weight on top of him.  Both hands were gripping his shirt again, although it was more the simple weight of the man behind them that was keeping Q pinned down. 

Quincey’s eyes were wide in surprise, his breathing shallow as he stared up at the assassin. “Impressive,” he managed to say, though it was more than a bit arousing to be pinned bodily to the floor. “Though I’d appreciate it if we moved this scene out of this office and somewhere more private.” He barely managed to keep his tone dry, and when the other man didn’t move, Quincey decided to, perhaps foolishly, move on his own. It was at least worth a try, anyway. Unfortunately, the second he so much as hinted at moving, a knife appeared as if by magic in one of the intruder’s hands.  One hand still gripping Q’s shirt and the other now moving to let a blade just barely kiss at the underside of Q’s chin, the gunman seemed to grow temporarily distracted then. He angled his head to instead peer up under the desk. “You’ve had a panic-button under here this whole time, and you seriously haven’t used it yet?” he asked, incredulous.

Quincey shrugged as much as he could with cold steel brushing against his skin. “I’m not helpless. I’m bored. There’s a difference.”

This time, Q could feel the rumble of the man’s laugh more than hearing, because of the body all but sitting on him, powerful thighs bracketing Q’s flanks.  “Yes, I suppose there is,” the man mused, still eyeing the unused panic-button as if it were the cherry on top of his own personal cake all of a sudden. The knife pressed closer, forcing Q’s head back.  The other hand unfurled from Q’s silk button-down, and a beat later Q felt a thumb swipe thoughtfully over his Adam’s apple. “You know, usually I’m the one who wants to move my jobs to a private locations, and even then, it’s generally only to make for easier clean-up.”

“Then consider this a gift. A mark who wants to help,” Q gasped, uncomfortable in this new position, his neck muscles taut with strain. The brief brush of skin was enough warmth to send a shiver through his body, and Quincey wasn’t sure anymore what he wanted. Did he really not care about his life? Or did he just like this sudden rush of a challenge? He fervently hoped it was the latter as he tried to meet the man’s eyes. “So. The ball is in your court.  _ Sir _ .” He added with every bit of insincerity the man had shown him before. 

Suddenly he had the undivided attention of those blue eyes again, as if he’d said the magic word.

The world was moving again with just as much warning as before (meaning basically no warning at all), although at least the knife seemed to disappear before Q was being hauled bodily to his feet again.  Instead of being dragged off somewhere with linoleum floors for easy blood-removal, however, he found himself pinned against the desk, and then almost bent backwards over it as his would-be-killer crowded in close.  All the while, those blue eyes just kept watching him like twin, cold fires. 

Quincey tried to grab for the desk, but the angle was too awkward- which left him clinging to the man’s shirt as he struggled to stay more upright. The room wasn’t spinning anymore, which meant his face was mere centimeters away from a trained killer sent to take him out. “And here I thought the other angle was better.”

The gunman just smirked in response, and then Q felt a hand slide up his back, demanding and warm - before Q could react to it, however, the man’s hand had reached the level of his nape, whereupon it hooked a finger in Q’s shirt-collar and pulled down.  Q had a choice between choking, or falling back on his desk, legs dangling awkwardly off the side.

Quincey gasped as his collar tightened, and then he let go. He sprawled backward against the desk, nearly knocking the laptop to the floor as he fought to regain his breath. The assassin was above him, staring down at him with the kind of scary interest usually seen in birds of prey; it seemed Quincey was only beginning to understand his level of vulnerability, and it shot straight to his cock. 

Still with the fingers of one hand tangled in the back of Q’s shirt-collar, keeping him in place, the assassin paused there, seeming to consider the situation.  Q’s legs were on either side of his hips, his arms dangled half off the upper edge of the desk; when Q’s arms so much as twitched as if to move, it was easy to see how the gunman’s eyes locked on the motion, the sharpness of his gaze a warning all on its own.  

The blue-eyed man leaned forward.  It was almost - but not quite - enough to create actual friction between their bodies, but more than enough for Q to feel the radiant heat of his nearness, right up against Q’s inner thighs and groin.  “So,” the man said, tone deceptively mild. He still had one hand free, and it came to brace against the desk to Q’s right, “Not going to fight for your life?” It took a beat to realize that the glint in the man’s eyes was actually interest, and even if the rest of his face barely hinted at it, the look was more pronounced than any emotion so far.

Heart pounding in his throat, Quincey continued staring brazenly upward, his eyes and what set of his head he could manage defiant and confident. “I said I wouldn’t fight if you truly wanted to kill me. But only if sex came first. Besides, I doubt I could fight properly anyway. You certainly have size and strength on your side.”

“True, but it’s not the size of the dog in the fight,” the man said, maddeningly calm, although now his smile was starting to show around his mouth, too.  He also leaned forward just a bit more, and suddenly Q had an intimate feeling of the size of the dog in this fight - metaphorically speaking. The assassin’s closeness was maddening in how it teased what he could do with his body. “-It’s the size of the fight in the dog, and you’ve got a bit more fire in you than I think my employers… whoever they are… realize.”  By now, his smirking mouth was hovering just out of Q’s reach. 

Frustrated, possibly a tiny bit afraid, horny, and damn impatient, Quincey moved. His right hand came up to slap the man right across the face as the fire of his own wants and passions surged within him. No, he didn’t want to die. He wanted excitement and intrigue and competency around him. So yes, there was a fire in his soul, and he was doing his damnedest to use that to slap the smirk off his captor’s face. 

Well, if nothing else, that definitely garnered a response. 

The slap barely hit home, mostly thwarted by the tanned hand that snapped up, catching Q’s wrist in a punishingly tight grip.  Q had still managed to connect with the man’s cheek enough that he got the pleasure of seeing the gunman pause and open and close his jaw a few times.  Then he gave a subtle nod, as if in approval, and abruptly gathered both of Q’s wrists in one hand. “I supposed I was asking for that,” he mused, as if this were merely some eggs that had been carelessly dropped at the grocery store.  

_ Now _ Quincey began to struggle, twisting his wrists obviously and fruitlessly as he shifted his weight subtly. Keeping his focus on his hands and arms, and therefore keeping the assassin’s attention there too, Quincey gathered up his legs as he wriggled and then he moved, working to kick the man fully in the chest with the whole force of his restrained body. The gunman swore, but even as he overbalanced backwards, he still managed to grab one of Q’s ankles… which was not part of the plan.  A dizzying tumble later and they were both on the floor. As he regained his bearings, Q took in the new positions and catalogued his injuries: the fact that he had a few new bruises now, that he was now in the position of being on top… and also that the gunman had pulled another knife, and it was presently angled across his lower throat.

Beneath him, the assassin just flashed a cheeky grin.  “You do know that in my profession, this is practically third base already.”

Quincey lifted his head slightly, wary of the blade but intrigued by the assassin’s continued flirting. “I’m still trying to determine why we’re in this office instead of in a  _ bed _ . Clever and resourceful as you are, I’m far better stocked there. Last I checked, I don’t keep lube in my father’s study.”

“And last I checked, the door was unlocked,” the assassin shot back, clearly untroubled by Q’s own observations.  

“Then we have a stalemate. Because I’ll continue to fight and you’ll just pull another knife on me. If you’re going to kill me, just do it already.” Pulling his head back, Quincey grabbed the man’s hands to try and pin one and knock the knife away with the other. The fight seemed to be going well, except the blond-haired bastard was laughing - which would have been insulting, except for the fact that it was perhaps the most genuine sound Q had heard out of the man so far.  The knife did end up thumping away across the carpet, but (just as Q had predicted) another appeared almost instantly. Where they all were coming from, Q had no idea, but this next one ended up stabbing through Q’s shirt-collar - which seemed like a miss, but before Q could celebrate, he learned that it was a pocket-knife, and with a twist, James folded the blade shut and gave himself a whole new sort of hand-hold on Q’s shirt. It was like being leashed, and the larger body holding that ‘leash’ twisted his grip until Q was seeing spots.  

“Christ, I haven’t had this much fun in months,” the gunman panted, rolling aside and dragging Q with him by the neck.  The larger man at least sounded winded - points to Q. When the gunman stopped moving, he was leaned against the wall, dragging a wriggling boffin back against him.  “You know, up until now, some part of me was hoping that you had raised the alarms, because it would actually make my job challenging for once, but this? This is better.”

“Which part?” Quincey gasped against his constraining shirt collar. “The fact that-I’m fighting back-or that I’m-not like other people?” The new grip on his collar was infuriating and only limited his movement further. And with the assassin’s other arm wrapped around his chest and pinning his arms, Quincey was well and truly trapped now. 

“Both,” the word was a hot breath against Q’s ear.  Actually, the gunman in general was a whole, hot pressure against Q’s back, where Q was sitting between his legs.  “Want to know a secret, Quincey?” 

“I  _ hate _ that name,” Quincey snarled as he struggled in vain to free himself. “Call me anything else. Call me… call me Q.” He’d liked the sound of that for some time. Hell, it was his hacker name. Why not take it on officially? When the silence after his insistence began to stretch, Q realized he’d been asked a question. “Fine. What secret?”

“You see, whenever I infiltrate parties like this, I usually anticipate getting into various positions,” the man explained, and of course he was taking his time with this.  But by now, Q could also feel the outline of the man’s cock behind him. The tension on Q’s shirt-collar still firm, the gunman leaned his head closer, so that he could finish quite factually in Q’s ear, “So, my genius friend, you’re actually wrong.  I do have lube. It’s over there in my jacket.”

Q flushed, pale cheeks and ears turning bright pink at the matter of fact way the killer behind him could talk about ‘lube’ and make it sound even sexier than he had thought possible. He knew the man was interested, especially the more he wiggled; Q couldn’t quite fathom how unaffected he seemed otherwise because Q was starting to have trouble thinking the longer he was restrained.

Something was going to have to give.

“I’m not fucking you in my father’s study,” Q finally insisted flatly. “Not happening. I don’t care how prepared you are. There are plenty of rooms where we could possibly be discovered and several others where you could actually tie me to the furniture.” Like he needed to give up more ground. “But I’m not saying yes until we move this somewhere else.”

“Hmm,” the gunman hummed, and it was hard to tell whether he sounded disappointed or considering.  Making it harder to determine was the fact that he was now rubbing his cheek against Q’s ear, like a big, interested cat.  “Now that’s a pity. It’s not every day that I break into the household of a millionaire with an attitude problem.” The assassin’s voice lowered, lips moving against the shell of Q’s ear, “And I’m not talking about you.  I’m talking about your homophobic arsehole of a father.” 

Q may have gasped, but it was more at the sudden nibble on his ear than on what the man had said. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“I do my research.  To be honest, I expected you to be a chip off the old block, but you want this too much, don’t you, pet?”  He rolled his hips, making it clear what ‘this’ meant, even as he freed up his knife and finally gave Q his first unrestricted inhale of air in a while.  It was an unexpectedly heady combo. 

He wasn’t prepared for the sudden grind of a hard cock against his arse, and Q arched against the man’s arm and whimpered. Biting his lip again he tried to twist his head and see the man’s expression, glimpsing fiery blue before feeling another press against his arse. “Oh fuck,” he groaned. “I’m nothing like him. I hate the balls and the mansion. Money is nice but I could do so much more than he does. He hoards and lies. I was just waiting until I was of age and could do the most damage.”

Why the fuck he was telling an assassin all this, Q wasn’t entirely sure, other than the fact that the man had nothing to lose and at least seemed interested enough.  

“Oh, I’m finding it hard to believe that you hate ‘balls,’ but at least we’re on the same page now,” was the pleased-as-punch reply that he got.

Q elbowed him in the ribs as best he could. “Wanker.”

He felt the chuckle as a vibration again his back, almost more of a low purr in his ear.  “I’ll make it up to you.” Another nuzzle against his ear - and teeth this time. Rather than a gentle nibble, Q felt the curve of his ear taken between strong teeth, just enough pressure applied to be dangerous.  Just as a spark of pain radiated from the bite, the agent let go, murmuring lowly, “How about this? I fuck you all over that desk so that every time you see your father sitting there like a puffed up king behind his desk, you can also picture your come smeared all over that fine wood grain?”

This time, Q entirely forgot to breathe for several seconds. When his brain kicked back into gear, he swallowed hard. “One condition. You tell me whose name I’ll be screaming.”

The first reply was a low rumble as the assassin tucked his head in against Q’s neck - like a predator feeling for the pulse of its prey.  Up against Q’s carotid, the ex-MI6-agent replied, “Deal. You can call me Bond. James Bond.” Teeth scraped the edge of Q’s jaw, followed by a quietly whispered promise, “And you  _ will _ be screaming, so I hope your servant Perceval truly is keeping people from coming down this way.”

Q’s goes curled in his shoes as he shivered at the promise. The scrape of teeth only heightened his arousal, and his trousers were growing uncomfortably tight. “So, Bond James Bond,” he replied with a smirk, but was cut off again, this time with a huff that proved that this gunman  _ could _ get annoyed.

“Just get the lube Q.”

Chuckling, and delighted to find himself released (thought immediately missing the warmth of James’ body) Q stood, cracked his back, and headed for the coat. This time, he did hear something, very soft, behind him. Curious, Q glanced back to see James watching him, steady as anything, but with yet another knife in his hand. The cool blue eyes were neither angry nor apologetic, meeting Q’s squarely.  Q put it together when he reached the coat and saw the gun in its holster - if he so much as turned on James with the gun he would be dead before he managed to disengage the safety. It was all about trust, seeing if this paranoid old fucker could trust an upstart like Q. Q crouched to look for the bottle as he thought over the expression on James’s face: neutral but resigned. He was expecting a betrayal. So Q resolutely ignored the weapon and found the small bottle of lube he had been sent for. 

He turned and held it up, triumphantly smirking and dangling the bottle as he backed himself into the corner, away from the coat and gun. “Come and get it.”

The flat, cold look fell away to a wolfish smile, those arctic eyes coming alive again.  “Haven’t you had enough of me manhandling you yet,  _ Q _ ?”  He said the title as if truly testing it now, tasting it on his tongue and finding it pleasing.  He also, despite his words, had gotten to his feet. The knife was moving in his hand, but it seemed less like a conscious threat and more like an idle movement - an assassin’s version of a cat twitching its tail, wriggling its hips before pouncing.  

“And here I surmised you were trained to read people- did you not notice how much being manhandled turns me on?” Continuing to keep to the side of the room and away from James’s coat, Q smirked and held up the bottle. “I may be the main course, but it’s no fun being with someone who doesn’t play with his food.”

“You were the one who seemed to be complaining about my playing with their food,” James scoffed, but chose then to move in earnest.  Fuck, despite having more years on him than Q, Bond could  _ move _ .  He actually cleared one of the chairs in front of the desk, halving the distance between them in a heartbeat.  

Q grinned and darted, feinting for the door and then sprinting for behind the desk. His heart pounded in his ears as James gave chase, and fuck. He was ready. He bloody wanted this and if it happened to be his last fuck, he was determined it would be a good one.  So far, it looked promising, even as James detoured unexpectedly back towards the door - instead of grabbing a gun, however, he picked up his jacket, and without warning Q found the material in his face. He was only lost in a tangle of cloth for a heartbeat, it seemed like, but in that time James caught up to him and slammed him into the desk.  

“You  _ are _ a troublesome one,” James noted, even as he ensured that his grip was secure - he was also nice enough to untangle Q from the jacket, however.  Q was on the side of the desk, bent over it, and Bond’s firm hand on the back of his neck was making it impossible to even lift his left cheek away from the pile of papers he’d landed on.  Bond’s other hand was quick to snatch the lube before Q could get any ideas about throwing it for a game of fetch - unexpectedly, though, Bond’s hand retreated outside of Q’s range of vision.  

Torn only for a moment, Q decided to continue being naughty (mostly because it meant James manhandled him more) and he tried to lift his head to look up. “James?” No answer. What the fuck was James planning? Would James strip and then fuck Q, or would he make  _ Q _ strip while he stayed clothed? The very thought of that made Q shiver excitedly. If there was one thing he already knew and liked about James, it was that the assassin was adaptable. “Want to maybe clue me in on what you’re doing? I’m the one with a trained killer behind him after all.”

The hand on Q’s nape flexed, a slight movement that nonetheless kneaded the tendons of Q’s neck.  “Oh, I don't know,” said killer mused. There was a slithering sound of cloth moving, but all Q could see for sure was that James still had his shirt on.  Pity. But then Bond’s other hand came back down again to stroke a slow line of Q’s back, warm and firm. “I was thinking of opening you up until you were sobbing, and then fucking you right here against this table.”  The words were said as easily as if he were noting the weather, although when James spoke again, it was in a lower voice, and from much closer, “Unless you want to back out now?” 

“No! No, that sounds amazing. Don’t stop. Fuck, don’t you dare fucking stop,” Q said in a rush, all previous reservations about fucking in the study gone. He could still feel the warmth of James behind him, feel his entire presence around him. Q rocked slightly onto his toes as he tried to tease and grind up and back against James’ crotch, stopping only when the grip on the back of his neck tightened. So he tried to reach back instead, wanting to touch and tease and drive James as crazy as he was already starting to feel.  

That was when James caught his wrist, though, and with an adept twist that said he’d done this many times before, Q felt something encircle his wrist and pull taught.  Q only found out that ‘something’ was Bond’s recently removed tie when his snared wrist was dragged forward. James let go of Q’s neck only so that he could capture Q’s other wrist and bind it up like the first, Q’s pale skin against dove-grey silk.  But the gunman wasn’t done yet, because as soon as he had Q’s hands looped together, James dragged them out as far as either of them could reach… and then pulled yet another knife, driving it into the table. It was a one-sided blade, Q saw, with the tie between Q’s bound hands looped over its blunt end.  “Since you seem to have trouble staying still, and have developed this irksome problem of rubbing back against me before I think you deserve it,” James said by way of explanation, while Q gaped at the bindings, transfixed by their twin elegance and danger, “I figured that this was necessary.”

“How many fucking knives did you  _ bring _ ?” Q asked incredulously.

“More than enough to make a pup like you behave,” was the pleased growl Q got in his ear for an answer.  Then James was leaning back again, although this time he let his hands run from Q’s shoulders down his sides, openly possessive now that Q was stretched across the desk, all but up on his toes and quite incapable of much more than wriggling.  When the man’s hands reached Q’s belt, they rimmed it pointedly, and then James tugged hard enough at the belt-loops to make Q grunt in surprise. “How badly do you want them off?” he asked, all charm and patience. 

“Is this a negotiation now?” Now James was just being difficult (that or Q’s libido was firing up to the point that the more logical side of his brain couldn’t function properly). “I want them  _ off _ , I want you to  _ fuck me _ and, hell, you may as well ruin me for all other men while you’re at it since I’m still your target.” It was more to remind himself of the situation than anything, though a small part of him was beginning to hope that maybe James wouldn’t go through with the hit.

“Careful what you wish for, Q,” was the absolutely indecent murmur that came out of Bond’s mouth, and for a beat, that was all there was: an open-ended warning that sounded like a promise.  But then James’ hands started moving, finding enough space between Q’s pelvis and the edge of the desk to undo his belt. The man was  _ good _ at this, good enough that Q was more than a bit worried that he would indeed get exactly what he asked for.  Q’s belt was gone in seconds. Bond teased a bit more after that, though, the bastard, opening the buttons on Q’s trousers only to  _ ease _ the zip down with lazy slowness.  Before Q could swear at him, though, James reached past Q’s open fly to give Q’s hard length an almost punishing squeeze.  

The frustrated words died on Q’s tongue as he moaned in pained pleasure instead.  _ Finally _ some pressure, some friction for his aching cock, but James was holding, not rubbing or stroking. He was just holding possessively until Q stopped squirming and the true gravity of his situation sank in. Q finally grasped the extent of his vulnerability and that James would only give him what he deemed Q had either earned or begged nicely enough for. Q swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He hadn’t felt anything remotely like this before, not anything this intense or this dangerous. And he still wanted more.  

As if reading something of this in Q’s body language, James made a pleased humming sound, and released Q’s cock only to swiftly drag both his trousers and pants down in one sharp pull.  Then, he paused, considering for just a second before tugging them further down. When Q twisted his head and looked, he was just able to see that James had ducked down out of view - and it sounded like he was taking one of Q’s shoes. 

“What do you prefer from a lover? First or last name?” Q asked to distract from his anticipation. 

“Not the question I was expecting,” James grunted, as he proceeded to remove just one of Q’s shoes - that leg was soon freed from Q’s garments entirely, cool air kissing bare skin from arse to right ankle.  “But since you’re either brave or suicidal enough to have gotten yourself into this position, the least I can do is let you call me James.” Something other than Bond’s calloused hand wrapped around Q’s newly-freed ankle - suddenly, Q knew where his belt was gone.  Everything pulled tight, and suddenly Q realized that he was going to have a harder time balancing, because his right ankle was now belted to one of the legs of the desk. 

With anyone else, Q might have worried about falling down or the bindings on his wrists at least coming loose when he could no longer balance on both feet, but James took the experience to a whole new level, and Q could only imagine that his left ankle was next. In contrast to just two minutes before, he was holding perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. Q gently tugged at his right ankle, delighted when it stayed firmly belted into place.

Q’s eyes suddenly strayed to the door, remembering as if for the first time that the door was not locked. The thrill that shot through him made his cock twitch, and he whimpered in heightened anticipation.

Oddly enough, James left Q’s other shoe totally alone, even though it was trapping the remains of Q’s pants and trousers inelegantly around his ankle.   That wasn’t to say that the man was finished, however, as he simply tugged on the now-empty trouser leg - and then wove that around the other leg of the desk.  

“So…” Q said as James finished securing him to the desk. “You do this often?” His tone strove for jovial, but there was fear there. And excitement. He had been promised a damn good time and the slow preparation of his body, of stretching him out and leaving him utterly at James’ mercy was sending adrenaline roaring through his system.

“Well, yes and no,” Bond replied, standing again, and dragging a hand up the outside of Q’s bare left leg as he did so.  Q’s shirttails had fallen over his arse at least a bit, but the touch was a reminder of just how much skin Q now had bared to the world.  “Nowadays, if I’m sent to kill someone, I usually just do it, but you’re a delightful break from the norm.” So much for the shirt-tails: as James’ hand rose, it continued to stroke naked skin, pushing the cloth out of the way.  “Tell me, Q, what are you going to say to explain all this, if someone walks in?” the gunman purred, hand on Q’s arse, one thumb just lightly stroking the lush curve of it. 

“I-I’ll say I found someone for the night. Snuck them in with the extra staff. That I was the only one involved and no one else knew.”

“Good,” James praised, sounding like he meant it.  In fact, he sounded warm and playful as he went on, “That’s what I was going to say.  Since the truth will hardly suffice.” His hand came down against the skin of Q’s arse with a hard smack of punctuation, out of the blue.  

Q squealed and jumped, as much as he could with how well he was bound. “Fucking hell, warn a guy next time,” he said with a whine of frustration. His arse stung, a warmth that James had left there, however temporarily.

Clearly not bothered by the beration, James snickered quietly even as his arm came into Q’s range of vision, reaching for the lube.  When the man leaned forward, his trousers rubbed against Q’s bare skin - most particularly, the skin that he’d just smacked. “Fine then.  I’ll warn you,” he said lightly, a parody of good behavior, “Right now, I’m going to finger you until you’re sloppy with it, and probably also refuse to let you come.”

“WHAT?!” Q strained against his bonds to look back at James, but he was too well tied up. All he could do was listen as James slicked up his fingers and wait for the cold dribble of lube against his bare arse. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he muttered, not angry in the slightest. “Not let me come? Why?”

“Call it a gentlemanly ‘thank you’ for kicking me earlier, and being generally difficult.”  One hand stroked up under Q’s shirt, knuckles grazing Q’s tailbone before ghosting up his lower spine. Q knew it was mostly mind games, but somehow that didn’t help right in that moment.

“You were threatening to kill me. I was well within my right to kick you.”

“Touché,” James admitted with surprising grace.  Then he leaned forward to rumble, dark and sweet as honey on a moonless night, “Then I suppose it’s just in my nature to be a sadistic bastard.”

With that, he eased the tip of a finger into Q’s arse, and leaned down to bite Q - hard - through his shirt at the shoulder.  

Q arched and cried out, the pleasure-pain a marvelous counterpoint to probing finger. He clenched reflexively as he whined in bound frustration. “Sadistic is one word for it,” he finally managed a moment later. “I’d say  _ prick _ is another-ah!”  The finger had given a little twist - a small motion that sent a zing of sensation right up Q’s spine.  At least James let up on the bite, a move that was perhaps strategic, because as Q relaxed at the cessation of pain, the digit worked in a little deeper, pumping gently.  

“What was that you were saying, darling?” James asked sweetly, still leaned over Q so that his crooked smile and wicked eyes were nearby for Q to see.  

“ _ Darling _ ?” Q asked incredulously. “On to pet names then, are we,  _ sweetie pie _ ?” 

“For that…”  James said, and the rest of his retribution was silent, and came in the form of unwarmed lube dripping down Q’s crack like a stroke of ice.  However, that did allow James to work his finger in more smoothly, still just one digit, playing things slow either for his own amusement or because he really did care about damaging his target/partner.  

Q moaned and buried his head in the crook of his outstretched arms. His only choices were to continue to struggle or to give in, and struggling, while fun, only gave James more ammunition. So, for now, he would be good. He made his body relax and take the finger as readily as he could, and he moaned again as James twisted it inside him. The last person he’d been with had been Perceval, and it had only been a quick fumble in one of the cupboards lest his father find them: hardly satisfying and only leaving him with guilt. This was something new, something forbidden but exciting, with danger just down the hall and right behind him, but the thrills of fear from earlier had gone.  As a second finger joined the first, it became hard to worry about anything at all, even as James’ free hand stroked almost idly against the sensitive insides of Q’s thighs. That hand reached up to fondle Q’s balls without warning, just as those two fingers in his arse stroked against his prostate, and Q arched as much as he could manage in surprise and sudden pleasure that was just shy of too much. Bloody hell. This was a man who knew what he was  _ doing _ .

“Fuck, fuck yes, oh fuck yes please,” Q babbled as he squirmed against the merciless fingers.

“That’s an improvement on your earlier temperament,” Bond observed, toying around the area without touching it again.  He went on in mild, mock horror, “Although you’re still terribly mouthy. I can’t believe a posh young thing like you is allowed to use language like that.”

Q snarled, twisting to fix what little he could see of James’ face with an ice cold glare. “We’re really going there? Fuck you-”

A third finger shut Q up. He hadn’t been this full in months, and even then only ever with toys. Unable to form words as his brain shorted out again, Q whined and succumbed to James’ clever hands. Hands that had most certainly killed. Q pondered fuzzily that that information should have frightened him… but it didn’t.  Hindering his thought-process, of course, was the fact that James then decided to stop playing around, and while he reduced his fingers to just two, he then began stroking Q’s prostate in earnest. Words abandoned Q as he shivered and keened in pleasure, suddenly and surely hurtling towards the bliss of orgasm, James’ name already on his lips.  James had two hands, though, and he clearly still remembered his promise - because just as Q’s body reached its peak… James’ other hand found Q’s cock, but only to squeeze down hard against the base of it.

Q yelled in frustration and pain as he was yanked back from the edge, suddenly aware of every single ache in his body, particularly around his cock and where James was mercilessly torturing his prostate. “You-you-you” he spluttered. Now James was just standing there with his fingers barely stroking, and with his legs and arms tied how they were, Q couldn’t even wriggle away if he wanted to. “Bloody bastard!” he finally managed.

“And here I thought we were on a first-name basis,” James chided, still playing it slow again - but started to ramp up quickly, each stroke of his fingers coming closer and closer to the spot that Q wanted.  But just as Q couldn’t get away, he couldn’t push back for more either, and James seemed to know that perfectly well. His other hand came back up to stroke Q’s flank, rucking his shirt up higher and higher. Starting to pump his fingers in earnest again, once again working up to a third so that Q could feel the burning stretch, James leaned in close to whisper, “I’m going to keep doing this, Q.  I’m trained to do things like this, you see - trained to find what makes people tick-” As he said it, he stroked down  _ hard _ right over Q’s prostate, enough to pull a startled shout out of Q, “-and to exploit that until they break.”  His words were so brutal, but the voice was soothing and gentle, like the kiss of his silk tie around Q’s wrists.  He leaned up to press his lips to Q’s ear, where he’d bitten earlier. “Do you still want someone to ruin you, Q?” 

The words burst out of Q in a sob, the counterpoint of power and soft, soothing care. “ _ Please _ ,” he whimpered. “Please James. Oh god, please, yes, that’s what I want. I do-I do please. Please!”

“Politeness will get you anywhere,” James cooed right against his ear, and he once again began purposefully rubbing the pads of his fingers against that perfect spot that set off fireworks crackling in Q’s skin, ratcheting up the pleasure with almost scary speed.  But once again, just as it reached its peak - James intervened. This time, he bit down on Q’s shoulder again, the same damn spot, and the pain was enough to derail the orgasm. This time there wasn’t a pause, however, as James immediately built up a rhythm again, knowing exactly the right moments to rub, and press, and twist, something bringing up his thumb to tug at stretch at Q’s rim just to keep him on edge and off-guard.  The next time the sensations rose towards an orgasm, Q knew what was coming, and for a fourth time he was denied what he wanted as James ripped it away from him again with another tight squeeze to Q’s cock. Q sobbed now, trembling with need and want; his entire body was the instrument, and James was the musician.

James did pause then, fingers still buried deep, his other hand on Q’s thigh as if to revel in how the muscles quivered and shuddered, feet still locked in a splayed position that didn’t help any.  “Just listen to you,” the man all but purred, sounding deeply contented and pleased. He pushed Q’s shirt up further, but this time, it was only to press a kiss to the bare skin of Q’s lower back. “You’ve got the kind of skin I’ve only seen in paintings, and I want to mar all of it.  You know that?” The man was mostly talking to himself now, but the words just kept washing over Q, even as James rocked his fingers in and out one more time with a lewd squelch of too much lube. “You’re a sight and a half, Q. You’re a beautiful wreck.” A hand cupped Q’s cock without closing over it, even as James observed with deep satisfaction, “And you’re smearing precum all over the side of the desk.”  

Q nodded weakly, soaking up the praise and satisfaction like a flower finally granted a tiny shaft of sunlight. He suddenly wanted his shirt off, wanted to be completely naked. “Cut it off,” he mumbled. Then, clearing his throat, he asked, “Please. Cut-cut my shirt off. Mark my skin.  _ Please _ , James,” he added.

He registered Bond’s jerk of surprise only because the man had fingers in his arse; it seemed he’d finally caught the man off-guard. 

“Not with your knife,” Q clarified hastily. “With your hands. Your mouth. Please.” 

Instead of responding right away, James let his free hand rove over Q’s shoulder-blades, and it took a beat before it registered that the gunman was gently shushing him, soothing the boffin with touch and with voice.  “Easy, Q, easy. Let me give you what you need,” he crooned, which was damn frustrating, because apparently James didn’t think Q needed his shirt ripped off, or a leopard-spotted coat of love-bites. Bond did press a kiss to Q’s hair, however, before he continued to speak into the tangled mass of black strands, “That brilliant brain of yours is full of ideas, but let me take care of things, hmm?”  There was a sound of a belt buckle being undone. “I promised that I’d fingerfuck you until you were out of your head, and I’ve done that. Now let me make it all  _ worth your while _ .”

The growl of promise  _ did _ things to Q. As Q struggled to comprehend that he was about to be fucked into the next week by a man who was still fully dressed, he felt more lube trickle down his arse and heard the telltale sound of a condom wrapper being opened.  Then the fingers abruptly slipped out of his arse. Q whined at the sudden emptiness after who knew how long and clenched reflexively around nothing. “You’re gorgeous, Q,” James murmured, and for the first time, there was a hint of just how much his calm was costing him.  As he leaned over Q, kissing at his shoulder through his shirt, his breath came out shaky, audible at this close range. The mask was pretty damn good, but it wasn’t perfect. “How about this? I’ll give you a choice,” James regained himself to murmur in Q’s ear, buffing his cheek lightly against the shell of it, “I can give you one of those love-bites you were wanting-”  Q keened in earnest, wanting that mouth all over his skin “-But at a price. I won’t touch your cock.” 

Q was going to have to talk to James about short-circuiting his brain when all this was over. If he were still alive. “So… so either…” he said slowly, “I get a single hickey… or I get your hand. Yes?”

“Precisely.”  James mouthed a bit at the edge of his ear, then nuzzled down into the collar of Q’s shirt, as if already seeking skin.  He didn’t bite, though, instead being  _ perfectly _ behaved.  “On this, your wish is my command.   _ Sir _ .”

There it was. That snarky tone once again. Biting his lip and steeling his gaze as best as he possibly could in his state, Q looked back at James, defiant as anything. “I choose your mouth and your mark.  _ Sir _ .”

With James’ face so close, it was impossible to miss the way his eyes flashed with surprise, and black pupil dilated amidst the pale blue.  Clearly, it wasn’t the answer James had been expecting… but, like when he’d let Q walk towards the door, towards weapons and escape, Q had chosen the path James  _ wanted _ .  “You’re going to scream my name,” James promised, and suddenly he was sinking into Q without pause, the extended preparation allowed him to bottom out in one powerful, sure stroke.  

Q’s head snapped back as his body bowed and he cried out, relief and pleasure mingling as he stretched around James. Every nerve felt alight, his fingers and toes tingling with want. “Yes!” he cried, almost sobbing again. “Fuck, oh fucking hell yes!”

Bond just growled in response.  He was curved over Q, close enough that there was no missing the way his muscled body shuddered.  He kept control, though, and his next movement was small, more a rolling of his hips, pushing himself in impossibly deeper even as he exhaled slowly against Q’s ear.  Then he rasped, in a voice husky with lust but still holding on to some of that wicked humor, “How about I shut you up a little? Wouldn’t want to ruin that lovely voice of yours before you get to my name.”  

The hand Bond had previously been milking Q’s prostate with remained on Q’s hip, steadying him, but the other hand slid up under Q’s chest, powerful and determined, until Q had two calloused fingertips tapping demanding at his lips.  “Open up, Q,” James rumbled, then gave a hard, unexpected snap of his hips to make his impatience known. 

Q gasped, mouth opening obediently as his whole body shuddered with the sudden thrust. He immediately had fingers gliding past his teeth, pressing against his tongue.  The rest of James’ hand curled around his jaw in an almost bruisingly possessive grip, and as if this was just what he’d needed to set him off, James began pounding into the body beneath him in earnest.  With every thrust, the texture of Bond’s undone trousers and even the cold kiss of his unclasped belt brushed against flushed skin, and sometimes Bond would drag it out - swift, punishing thrusts turning into slow strokes that seemed equally maddening for both of them.  And all that while, James likewise stroked at Q’s tongue, a loving, petting counterpoint, like he was fucking his mouth, too, taking over everything. By now, even the heavy wooden desk was shuddering. 

Q felt like he was falling apart, piece by piece. His cock throbbed as it brushed painfully against the smooth, polished wood and dripped steadily onto the carpet. The rhythm of James’ thrusts was too fast for him to clench properly around the cock that threatened to split him in half, but the fingers in his mouth… Q began to suck on them, swirling his tongue naughtily around the digits. His brain was disconnecting, logic abandoning him in favor of pure, unadulterated lust. Finally it was James who gritted out, “Fuck, Q,” pressing his fingers deeper, as if to test whether Q knew how to deepthroat. Smirking around the fingers, Q relaxed his throat and took them in as far as James’ hand would allow before swallowing repeatedly around the digits. The next thing Bond growled was probably still an expletive, but this time it wasn’t even in English.  

At that point, it also seemed that Q had earned the bite he’d so boldly asked for, because James withdrew his fingers - now leaving Q’s mouth open and empty without warning- and immediately yanked Q’s shirt-collar to the side.  Buttons popped. With Q’s arms bound in front of him at full extension, his shoulders were arched, but James just mouthed at them, awakening the bruise from his previous biting like a coal being awakened in a firepit. Wet fingertips stroked over the spot, cold contrasting with James’ hot mouth before the ex-agent seemed to lose interest, mouth wandering.  Bond’s breath was coming in pants now, but his hips continued to snap, hard and fast, even as he trailed a series of nips towards Q’s neck, finally settling on the knob of a protruding vertebra. “Another time, Q, I’ll leave you so marked that no one in heaven or hell will have any question who you belong to,” he rumbled, before pinching the skin between his teeth and sucking all the blood to the surface.  

Q screamed then, James’ name tumbling over and over from his lips. He wouldn’t have cared right then if James were the Devil himself; Q would have happily sold his soul just for this one moment, for those wicked promises. His body was on fire, nerve endings sparking with desperate need and a pool of liquid fire gathering in his belly. He was close, he was very fucking close with an aching and untouched cock. As James continued sucking, teeth creating sparks of fire, Q was hurtling closer and closer, and all it took was a tiny shift of the angle from James.

And Q came.

He came untouched, screaming James’ name like it was the last word he would ever say. His entire body was taut like the string of a bow, pain and pleasure and relief all mingling… and then he was coming to, awareness swirling around him as he sagged against his bindings with a sated whimper. And James followed him down, coming with an eerie silence even as his entire body shuddered.  Perhaps that was just what agents were trained to do - trap all the most precious sounds behind their teeth, like secrets. 

Q wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, breathing hard, joined together, but as his brain rebooted and he took stock of his body, he knew his time was up. “So…” he started, clearing his throat. “How is this going to happen?”

Bond twitched and just grunted at first.  He was a big warm weight on Q’s back, and it almost seemed like he’d dozed off.  But the agent was apparently less recalcitrant post-orgasm, because he cleared his throat and rasped a beat later, “How is what going to happen?” 

“I’m still your mark. The bargain was good sex and then I wouldn’t fight. I don’t want you to… to suffer because you didn’t complete your job.” Q wasn’t looking at him, not sure he could bring himself to for the moment. He’d truly had the best sex of his entire life and now it was sinking in that he was going to die. “I won’t put you in danger that way.”

Breath huffed out against the back of his head, and James finally moved to at least brace a hand against the table - the one he’d had buried in Q’s arse, now smearing lube across some of Q’s father’s precious paperwork.  “Christ, Q, but you know how to kill a mood,” he grumped, but then unexpectedly brought his head down again, just resting his mouth against the new, tender bite-mark against Q’s nape. “Luckily, my mood is virtually unkillable right now, seeing as this is the most fun I’ve had in longer than I care to remember,” he murmured with surprising frankness.  

Surprised, Q turned his head to catch James’ eye. “Sorry,” he said, a little abashed. “I didn’t mean to bring things down… this was fun for me too. And definitely the best sex of my life,” he added, a little smile in his voice. James was so warm around him, like a killer blanket. But Q wasn’t afraid of him. If anything, he actually felt very, very safe where he was, with James around him.  Strengthening that feeling was the smile that was flashed his way - it held less of a predatory quality than before. 

Of course, James had to pick that moment to pull out, the disconnect making them both groan in protest.  As James tucked himself back into his pants, however, the gunman finally replied, “How about this? Since I’ve been making deals with you all evening, and it’s ended quite well for both of us, I’ll make you another deal now.”

“How about you untie me first so you aren’t making the deal with my arse.”  

He got a low, rolling chuckle for that.  “Only because the little lord insists,” was the predictably teasing reply, but at least James leaned over him and - while fondling Q’s arse with one hand - yanked the knife free.  It disappeared somewhere onto his person even as the agent dropped down onto his haunches to begin unbinding Q’s legs, leaving Q to get his own wrists figured out. “So? Willing to make a deal with the devil?” James asked as he got Q’s right leg free.

“And here I thought I did that the moment I let your cock in my arse,” Q chuckled as he extricated his wrists and rubbed the feeling back into them. “What deal do you have in mind then, Lord of Hell?”

James seemed pleased with the title as he grinned up from his work, already moving on to Q’s other ankle.  Those wrinkles were never coming out of that trouser leg now that it had been tied around the desk-leg, with Q pulling at it this whole time…  “I’m inclined to let you live,” the man said cheerily, and before he could be interrupted, he went on, “There would be a price, of course - because you’re right, this might get me into a bit of hot water, and at the very least, I’m out of a payday.”

“I can make that up to you,” Q replied instantly. “At triple whatever they offered you.”

“I appreciate the thought, but that’s not what I want,” James asked, finishing his task but remaining where he was, crouched on the pads of his feet, arms draped lazily across his thighs and eyes like merry chips of blue ice.  

Q slowly lowered his weight back evenly on his feet and met James’ gaze evenly, curious. “What do you want then?”

“What I want,” James said slowly, eyes tracking appreciatively along Q’s form - from his tousled hair, hopelessly askew shirt with its missing top two buttons, long, lithe legs, and spent cock, “is for you to tell me where you’re going to run to.  After you ruin your father, and I leave you here alive, you’re going to have to run.” Blue eyes snapped back up to meet Q’s, as intense as winter skies when the weather is so cold that the air crackles with it. “Wherever you end up, let an old knife like me know, hm?”  A tiny smile took up residence on just one side of his mouth, putting crows’-feet around his eyes. 

James was going to let him live, and with what Q had sent to MI6, he probably had three hours, maybe as long as until dawn to get away. “My French is excellent,” he said after a moment of considering. “And I’ve always been a fan of wine country. You’ll find me there, a Parisian so natural it’s like I’ve always been there.” Q pulled over the laptop and flipped it open. “But I get to make a condition too. I insist on making sure you still get paid for the job. I’m not going to be the reason you take a loss.”

Rocking to his feet, James padded over, looking interested.  “Going to use this as a grand excuse to fake your death, are you?” he mused, but looked impressed.  Not a lot of people would’ve been, but apparently morbid ideas were good ways to catch the eye of an ex-MI6-agents and assassins-for-hire.  

“I’m going to do what I offered to do for you. I’m erasing myself. I will never have existed. I’ve been creating a new identity for quite some time.” A few more keystrokes and not only did his father have significantly less money to his name, but James was five hundred thousand pounds richer and Quincey Worthington had ceased to exist. “Done.”

“At this rate, I’m going to be paid twice,” James said, but didn’t sound displeased with the idea.  Yes, Bond’s morals were definitely skewed. He was smiling, although it was perhaps possible that he was less watching Q’s master computer work and more just watching the agile dancing of his fingers.  “You know what? You’re all right, Q. For a rich, poncy kid.” 

“You’re not too bad yourself. For a gun for hire.” Q winked at him and erased his tracks, closing the laptop. “I’m going to pack. You’re welcome to help or watch. Though I have a feeling you’re about to vanish too.” Q pulled his own trousers back on and tidied up the room enough that it would be passable at a cursory glance.

James was already padding across the room, silent as a big, bloody cat, to get his guns and jacket.  “I’m afraid I must,” he admitted. 

“Then one more request. A final kiss before you go? Call me an old romantic, but I’d like something other than a sore arse to remember you by.” Q was mostly put back together again, but he looked a bit rumpled and very well fucked. “And as long as you have some kind of digital footprint, I’ll be able to find you again. Let you know exactly where I am.”

Bond cast him a wink even as he shrugged on his shoulder-harness.  “What makes you think I’ll leave a digital footprint? Maybe you’ll just have to hope that I give Perceval my phone number.”  

Q growled, eyes narrowed at James. “You utter prick,” he muttered before heading towards the door.

Bond caught him halfway there, startling Q by looping his jacket around him and dragging him in close, like a hunter with an unorthodox snare.  What made it okay was that the man was grinning, fully-fledged and pleased but also warm. “All right, all right, I never said I didn’t want to give you a kiss,” he defended himself, nudging Q’s nose with his, though Q didn’t let up his glare for several seconds. But there was no way he was going to ruin this final moment for who knew how long before he would see his would-be killer again.

“True. Though I’m not sure you’re as good a kisser as Perceval-”

And maybe Bond didn’t want to ruin this final moment either, because he shut Q up with a long, thorough kiss that was far sweeter than perhaps either of them had expected.  

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and comments are welcome!
> 
> From Truth: I just saw the lovely message that Rose left about me, so I wanted to add that the feeling is wholly returned *hugs for my RP partner* I'm just here to write Bond - this story would very literally be only half written without her writing such a brilliant Q <3


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